


Atrophy

by gooseberry



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Arranged Marriage, Hurt No Comfort, Isolation, M/M, Mpreg, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 17:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15224423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooseberry/pseuds/gooseberry
Summary: “Noct,” Ignis says again, “it’s for the best. The empire’s terms are more than generous, and we can’t afford to turn them down. It would be—it would be foolish, and—”Noct scoffs disgustedly: “The emperor, though?”Ignis shares Noct’s disgust. He swallows and hopes that his nausea at the thought of the emperor doesn’t show on his face; none of them need him to express his horror at this idea, not when Noct is doing it well enough on his own.“Aldercapt,” Ignis says slowly, so that his voice won’t break, “has no living heirs.”“Don’t see how that’s a problem,” Noct mutters in a low, sullen voice. Ignis does his best to ignore it, to go on:“A succession crisis is the last thing Niflheim needs, and what affects Niflheim will affect us all. He needs a marriage—” Ignis pauses, licking his lips. When he glances toward the king, he sees that the king is watching him. Ignis feels himself flush with humiliation and a desire to cry that is difficult to tamp down. “He needs a marriage that can offer him heirs.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lagerstatte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lagerstatte/gifts).



> For Lagerstätte. Your prompts were amazing, and I wanted to write you a treat so badly. I hope you enjoy this! And I hope that Ignis's ~older husband~ is old enough for you. ♥

“You have to be joking!” Noct snaps again, and Ignis is quietly grateful that this conversation is taking place in the king’s study, rather than in the Council room or any other public space of the Citadel. 

The king sighs, looking tired and rather pained, and Ignis clears his throat. Noct shoots him a dirty look, but Ignis is quite used to Noct’s fits and tempers. A look, no matter how angry or dirty, can do little to harm Ignis, especially now. 

“Noct—”

“You can’t do this, you can’t just—Dad, _please_ ,” Noct pleads. Ignis wishes he had the freedom to plead as well, but he knows better. Noct might have been a victim of the empire’s attack years ago, but he’s been otherwise shielded from the realities of the governance, particularly governance during war. Noct is still tenderhearted and naive, and Noct still believes in absolutes. 

“Noct,” Ignis says again, “it’s for the best. The empire’s terms are more than generous, and we can’t afford to turn them down. It would be—it would be foolish, and—”

Noct scoffs disgustedly: “The emperor, though?”

Ignis shares Noct’s disgust. He swallows and hopes that his nausea at the thought of the emperor doesn’t show on his face; none of them need him to express his horror at the idea, not when Noct is doing it well enough on his own.

“Aldercapt,” Ignis says slowly, so that his voice won’t break, “has no living heirs.”

“Don’t see how that’s a problem,” Noct mutters in a low, sullen voice. Ignis does his best to ignore it, to go on:

“A succession crisis is the last thing Niflheim needs, and what affects Niflheim will affect us all. He needs a marriage—” Ignis pauses, licking his lips. When he glances toward the king, he sees that the king is watching him. Ignis feels himself flush with humiliation and a desire to cry that is difficult to tamp down. “He needs a marriage that can offer him heirs.”

Maybe it’s the pause while he’s speaking, or maybe it’s the way that his voice cracks on the last word; maybe it’s just the topic at hand. Whichever it is, Noct explodes as soon as Ignis has finished speaking. “So what,” he spits at Ignis and the king, “we just let him take you away? That’s bullshit!”

“Noct,” Ignis tries to interrupt, only to be interrupted in turn.

“Enough,” the king says, speaking at last. He sighs heavily, looking old and defeated, and it’s not hard for Ignis to feel pity for him, even in the midst of his own turmoil. “Noctis, what would you have me do? This war cannot continue, and if this is how we bring it to an end—”

“But Ignis?” Noct asks, a selfishness that yesterday would have made Ignis feel equally fond and exasperated, and that today only makes Ignis feel tired. 

“Yes, Ignis.” The king passes his hand over his face slowly, like he’s trying to wipe away his exhaustion. “He’s the best candidate we have, Noct. He’s the right age, he’s unmarried, and he’ll be able to bear children.”

Ignis can still feel his face burn red with embarrassment, and he looks down so that he can avoid both the king’s and Noct’s eyes. He sounds—by the king’s words—not very different from a cow, or maybe a dog. A bitch. He’s young and fertile, and that is the extent of his worth in this issue. He feels a little sick as he thinks that he should perhaps be grateful no one has asked to check his teeth, or the width of his hips.

“There’re plenty of single people,” Noct insists stubbornly. The king raps his knuckles on the desk, though Ignis doesn’t know if it’s in frustration or in an attempt to hold Noct’s attention.

“Not ones of the right class.” The king raps his knuckles on the desk again, and Ignis wonders if it’s neither frustration nor a call for Noct’s attention; maybe it’s only discomfort. “Would you prefer if it was Iris? She’s the only other person we can offer and that Niflheim will accept. Noct,” the king says, “there are no other options.”

( _A well-bred bitch,_ Ignis imagines the Privy Council telling the Niflheim delegation. _Young and fertile. Would you like to see his paperwork?_ )

“You know how they treat omegas.” Noct is beginning to look defeated, like he is playing his last card on a losing hand. Noct must know by now—has probably known from the beginning, for all that he has fumed and yelled—that the king’s feelings for Ignis, no matter how paternal or affectionate, will have no sway in this matter. Ignis has been aware of it since he was called to the king’s office this afternoon, since the king had said, _My hands are tied, Ignis._

Still, it comes as a sickening sort of shock to hear the king say, “I do. Be thankful you’re not one, Noct, and that Aldercapt didn’t ask for you. We’re finished here. Ignis, your uncle’s secretaries have begun the paperwork. Go and find them.”

x

Ignis finds himself married within the week, and the event seems quite indicative of what his future will hold: namely, his person as the new territory over which Lucis and Niflheim fight. 

Lucis questions the hastiness of the wedding; Niflheim suggests that Lucis is reconsidering the treaty. Lucis argues that the planned wedding ceremony is austere to the point of insult; Niflheim asks whether Lucis should be wasting her resources on the frivolity of a wedding rather than the needs of her citizens. Lucis, then Niflheim; Lucis, then Niflheim. They are like two dogs, Ignis the bone they are snapping over: some brittle, gnawed-on thing, feeling himself beginning to splinter.

“It’s fine,” he says again and again. “Noct, I swear. It will all be fine, you’ll see.”

Privately, he thinks that Lucis’s posturing is doing more harm that good. He’s hardly expecting a warm welcome from his new home, but he’s aware of how cold his welcome may be. It’s unlikely he’ll ever be viewed as anything other than a foreigner and a carryover from the war between Niflheim and Lucis; the best he can hope, in all likelihood, is for the emperor’s court—and perhaps Niflheim at large, if he is especially lucky—to forget how bitter the animosity between Niflheim and Lucis has become over the last few generations.

Lucis’s posturing, though—its thinly veiled distrust and its insistence on ceremony—is beginning to feel petty and irritating even to Ignis, and he is certain it isn’t winning the affection of any of Niflheim’s delegates. When Ignis arrives in Niflheim, he’ll be the only Lucian of any real standing, and whatever resentment Lucis has managed to dredge up with these last, small-minded jabs will have nowhere to land except upon Ignis.

Still, he understands the feeling behind the endless squabbling. Niflheim is treating the entirety of the marriage, from contracts and titles to the ceremony and its aftermath, with a flippancy that has caused Ignis to question Niflheim’s sincerity more than once. There’s been little discussion on Ignis’s place in Aldercapt’s court, and just as little discussion about the inheritance for any resulting children. The blatant disinterest in the ceremony of the marriage— _Radio silence_ , a Councilmember had said. _No one in Niflheim is discussing it_ —leaves Ignis on edge.

“They’re not treating you right,” Gladio points out when Ignis mentions that, unfortunately, he hasn’t met Aldercapt yet. “They’re trying to keep you low, keep your station uncertain.”

“Well,” Ignis says with a bitter humor that he’s finding easier to wield each day, “they’re doing outstandingly well on that count.”

Gladio frowns at him. It’s a common thing now, people frowning at Ignis, people looking concerned and unhappy; people grasping his arm and saying, _It’s not right,_ just before they say, _But our hands are tied._ Ignis sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose as Gladio begins to ask, “Does Noct—”

“He doesn’t need to know,” Ignis says. There is a headache behind his eyes, one that’s been sitting there for two days now, since his uncle’s secretary had said, _They’ve denied our amendments to the marriage settlement._

“Iggy—”

“Please, Gladio.” Ignis gives into the headache, pulling off his glasses so he can press the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I don’t have the time or energy to reassure Noct right now. I’m meeting the ambassador in less than an hour and I still haven’t found a replacement Noct won’t fire.”

Gladio clicks his tongue, making a dismissive sounding _kch_ before he says, “Pretty sure he’s gonna fire anyone who’s not you.”

Ignis laughs, but it sounds more like the beginning of a sob. He tries to strangle it back, but he knows he’s failed when he hears Gladio curse.

“Shit, I didn’t—look, Iggy,” Gladio says, “this really isn’t the shit you should be worrying about right now, okay?”

“It’s my job,” Ignis tries to argue, but Gladio’s pointedly unimpressed. 

“Yeah, sure. It’s mine, too, y’know. Just,” Gladio says with a sigh that sounds as tired as Ignis feels, “let me do some of it. I can keep the kid in line for a while at least, until we figure things out.”

It’s a nice offer, provided Ignis doesn’t think about how _figure things out_ means _find a way to replace you_. There’s nothing to be figured out on Ignis’s side—that was all decided days ago, by people other than him. Ignis’s bed has been made, and now he’ll have to lie in it for the rest of his life. 

x

He doesn’t sleep much the night before the wedding. His wedding. The wedding. 

If he had the time, or the privilege, or the freedom, he likely would’ve taken a sleep aid or five, eased down with more than a few fingers of liquor. Oblivion would have been a comfortable and preferable way to spend the eve of the wedding. _His_ wedding. Instead, he spends most of the night working. He pares down the options for his replacement from several dozen dossiers to only a handful; he hands off the control for Noct’s calendar and scheduling to Gladio; he clears out his inbox, and Noct’s for good measure; he double checks that a welfare organization is scheduled to pickup all the possessions that he left behind in his previous apartment. 

It’s time consuming, but it’s easy, nothing particularly difficult or out of place. He’s hired employees for Noct before, and he’s spent more than a few late nights catching up on late emails, both his own and Noct’s. All of this—this busy-work of tying up loose ends, ensuring that his departure is as painless and undemanding as possible—is easy, provided Ignis doesn’t wonder who will be taking his place. 

The harder task—not the hardest, because that will come in the morning, when Ignis will let Lucis barter away his body without a word of protest—had been turning in his keys. Keys to the Citadel, keys to Crown cars, keys to Ignis’s apartment; keys to Noct’s life: his car and his apartment and the locker at his part time job. It’d been harder to turn them all over to the facilities office and to know that he’s being locked out. 

So this—this is all easy. This is manageable. This is erasing himself from the Citadel, from the privacy of a room that will no longer be his tomorrow morning. This is doable—a series of concrete steps, tasks to be completed. By the time he’s divorced himself from the entirety of his role at the Citadel, it’s half-past four in the morning and his wedding is in less than seven hours. 

He spends three of the hours lying in his bed, dozing fitfully. When his alarm goes off, he drags himself from his bed and begins to prepare himself to be dragged from Insomnia.

He’s dressed in black for the marriage ceremony, from head to toe, his clothes fairly dripping with skull motifs. It’s about as subtle a jab as any other that has passed between Lucis and Nilfheim, and Ignis knows that it will go unnoticed by absolutely no one. Lucis and her Crown are making one last, overdone claim to ownership of Ignis, all while handing him over to another nation. Still, there’s something nice about it—about having a final few hours with Lucian ownership stamped onto his body. 

When he finally meets Aldercapt, he’s proven right about the brashness of the clothes in which Lucis has dressed him. Aldercapt looks Ignis over, and his face grows visibly cold. He holds out his hand toward Ignis, and when Ignis takes it, Aldercapt covers Ignis’s hand with his other hand, trapping Ignis’s hand between both of his. 

“How unfortunate,” he says to Ignis, “that I was unable to meet you before our wedding day.” 

When the glasses of champagne are brought out for the pre-ceremony toasts, Aldercapt squeezes Ignis’s hand, then lets go with one hand so that he can take a glass. He tips the glass toward Ignis, his mouth pressed into a thin smile as his other hand tightens around Ignis’s. “To my charming young husband-to-be.”

The smile Ignis offers in return feels just as thin, but it’s still a smile. This is what will be caught by photographers and what will be discussed by the delegates of the peace talks. It may not be perfect, but it is a good faith effort—whatever can be managed for the sake of peace.

x

He’s not sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this. He supposes he thought that Aldercapt would be tired enough after the wedding to go straight to bed, or that he would only have the energy for some uncomfortable fondling; if Ignis is honest with himself, he’d even hoped—however wildly—that Aldercapt would want nothing to do with him beyond the marriage ceremony, that Aldercapt would expect, or even insist upon, separate quarters. 

Of course, none of that is what Ignis actually gets. What Ignis gets is Aldercapt leading him into the bedroom, his hand low enough on Ignis’s back that it feels more threatening than proprietary. As soon as Aldercapt stops near the bed, Ignis takes the opportunity to step farther away from him, outside Aldercapt’s reach. 

“Shy, my dear?” Aldercapt asks with a smile. The smile is odd, and it puts Ignis on edge; it doesn’t look particularly unkind or malicious, but it doesn’t feel like there can be anything kind in it, either.

Before Ignis can decide how best to answer without inadvertently inviting Aldercapt’s attentions, Aldercapt says, “I’ve been told you’re a virgin.”

It’s like Aldercapt’s smile: there is nothing in Aldercapt’s words that is pointedly unkind, and his voice and face remain neutral as he speaks. There’s still something, though, that seems to linger, an edge to Aldercapt’s smile and to Aldercapt’s words that feels like a veiled implication about—or against—Ignis. 

“I am, my lord,” Ignis answers, and Aldercapt’s reprimanding _tsk_ makes him feel even more on edge.

“Now, my dear, there’s no need for such formality. Come.” Aldercapt holds out his hand toward Ignis, and Ignis gives in at once, too thrown and uncertain to risk seeing what other moods Aldercapt might have. Aldercapt pulls Ignis closer by his hand, until Ignis is standing just in front of him. “We’ll be sharing our lives together. The least we might do is use each other’s names.”

“Of course, Iedolas,” Ignis says, and Aldercapt smiles at him, lifting Ignis’s hand to his mouth and turning it over to kiss the palm. There is a sharp pain in his wrist, like it’s been twisted, but it’s gone before Ignis can do more than gasp. Aldercapt releases Ignis’s hand, and Ignis pulls it back to himself, cupping his sore wrist with his other hand. 

“Gasping at kisses?” Aldercapt asks. If it was another person, in another place at another time, Ignis would hear the words as teasing. Here and now, with Aldercapt, it’s just one more discomfort, pushing Ignis further from any sense of stability. 

“I’m afraid I’m unpracticed in kissing,” he says faintly, humiliated when he hears his voice shake, and humiliated all the more when Aldercapt seems utterly disinterested in what Ignis says. 

“Hush,” Aldercapt commands. (Ignis can count the number of people who have ever told him to be quiet on one hand; Ignis has never been—) “There are better ways to spend our time, my dear.”

It’s not particularly subtle, and Ignis knows what he’s meant to do. He rubs his sore wrist once more, then begins to remove his clothes. It’s impossible to ignore how Aldercapt is watching him, and the intensity of Aldercapt’s attention—the strangeness of Aldercapt’s smile and words and tone—makes Ignis clumsy. 

“How charming, to be as nervous as a virgin,” Aldercapt says with a chuckle when Ignis fumbles with a shirt button. It’s stupid, Ignis knows, but he still freezes at Aldercapt’s words, wondering what Aldercapt is implying. It’s Aldercapt’s _tut_ that jars him back into action.

It seems to take a very long time for him to undress, like each of Aldercapt’s remarks is slowing time further. By the time he’s naked, it feels like he’s been in this room for an age; if this is what just the first few hours are like, he doesn’t know how he’ll survive years in Gralea. It feels like he’s already been half-stripped of what strength and self-assurance he had, like each piece of clothing he’s taken off was another part of him. 

“How lucky I am, to marry such a lovely young thing,” Aldercapt murmurs. He tuts again when Ignis lingers too far away, and Ignis grudgingly moves closer. Aldercapt touches Ignis’s side, his fingers dry and rasping as they brush up along Ignis’s ribs, and Ignis feels his shoulders pull tight against a shudder. Aldercapt sweeps his touch across Ignis’s body again, down to Ignis’s hip, and when his hand is resting on Ignis’s hip, he tugs, pulling Ignis another grudging step forward. 

“Though,” he says to Ignis, the word sounding like the lynchpin to a threat, “I hope my lovely young husband is not too shy to invite me to his bed.”

Ignis isn’t so off-step as to miss the game Aldercapt is playing. The power in this room—the power in this marriage, from the engagement to the marriage settlement to spousal rights—is all firmly in Aldercapt’s hand. This interchange is just a miniature of the peace treaty between Niflheim and Lucis; one party has the power, and the party is bluffing wildly. There is little—there is _nothing_ —that Ignis can do outside the role Aldercapt has set for him.

He touches Aldercapt’s chest, where Aldercapt’s heavy robe falls open, and knows he’s done correctly when Aldercapt gives him that odd smile. “I would very much,” Ignis says as steadily as he can, “like to invite you to my bed.”

“Charming,” Aldercapt says again, “how you say that with a blush.” He is still holding Ignis close, one hand on Ignis’s hip, and he grasps Ignis’s right hand with his other hand, moves Ignis’s hand to Aldercapt’s high collar. Ignis obeys, searching out the tiny buttons hidden beneath the starched folds of Aldercapt’s shirt.

It’s strange, how much easier it is to undress Aldercapt than it had been to undress himself. Maybe it’s from years helping Noct straighten his court dress, or maybe it’s because it’s not his own body he’s baring and making defenseless; maybe it is that he’s more fully aware of his powerlessness in this room. What will happen will happen, no matter if Ignis stumbles or falls, if Ignis drags his heels or clenches his hands into fists. 

Aldercapt’s chest is thinning from age, but there is still muscle across it, a wiry, corded strength along his shoulders. Ignis swallows and tries to ignore Aldercapt’s chuckle as he helps Aldercapt slide his robes and shirt from his arms. When Ignis reaches for Aldercapt’s trousers, Aldercapt asks, “Eager, my dear?”

He has to close his eyes for a moment and breathe shallowly through his nose. This is just—it’s just a farce. It’s just another part of politics, an elaborate play. They both know their parts, and it doesn’t mean—it doesn’t have to mean—

Aldercapt’s hand tightens on Ignis’s hip, enough that it hurts, and Ignis undoes Aldercapt’s belt, sliding it free from the belt loops of his trousers. Aldercapt’s trousers seem to hang loose, and Ignis doesn’t know if he is surprised or not when he opens Aldercapt’s trousers and finds Aldercapt’s cock hanging soft and limp between Aldercapt’s thighs.

“I’m an old man, my dear,” Aldercapt says as he rests a hand on Ignis’s shoulder, using Ignis to steady himself as he steps free of his trousers. His cock dangles between his thighs, and Ignis feels sick as he watches it. “It’s not so easy for me to grow excited, though I’m certain your attentions will help a great deal.”

On his second try, Ignis manages to say, “Of course, Iedolas.”

Aldercapt positions him as he likes, sitting Ignis on the bed, far enough back that Ignis’s feet can’t touch the floor. Aldercapt lies himself along the length of the bed, and Ignis leans closer when Aldercapt motions for him. 

Aldercapt’s cock feels much like any other part of Aldercapt, Ignis determines. There is nothing particularly—nothing particularly different, nothing particularly threatening. The skin is warm and dry, like the skin of Aldercapt’s thigh, and it is soft, like the bit of softness at Aldercapt’s belly. There is no reason to feel ill, no reason to hesitate or to try to pull his hand back. 

“Gently,” Aldercapt warns Ignis when Ignis pumps his cock, and Ignis doesn’t let himself think about it as he lets go of Aldercapt’s cock so he can lick his palm, get it wet. Aldercapt makes a pleased sound when Ignis pumps his cock again, murmuring, “That’s better. Perhaps you’re a quick learner?”

What quickness Aldercapt may be hinting at in Ignis is nowhere to be found in Aldercapt’s cock, though. It stays stubbornly soft, even when Ignis spits in his palm, then on the head of the cock itself, trying to ease the slide of his hand on Aldercapt’s cock. If Aldercapt wants to fuck him, which is certainly what all of Aldercapt’s actions seem to have been pointing toward, then Aldercapt will need to be hard, and if Ignis can’t get him hard with his hand—

He can feel himself beginning to panic, his shoulders tensing and his neck cramping as he imagines Aldercapt grabbing him by the hair and forcing him down on his cock. It’s ridiculous, to be more distressed at the thought of a cock in his mouth than a cock in his arse, and just as ridiculous to feel himself begin to grow breathless from the fear a limp cock is giving him. 

“You do seem as unpracticed as they said,” Aldercapt says, touching Ignis’s face with a warm, dry hand. His palm is resting against Ignis’s cheek, his fingers laying over Ignis’s temple and right eye and his thumb pressing against Ignis’s mouth. Ignis clenches his jaw and tightens his lips, wondering if Aldercapt will demand this, too.

(And he wonders if the Council had said, _A well-bred bitch, never been mounted_ ; he wonders how high the price of his virginity was—was it Leide for Ignis’s womb, and Duscae for Ignis’s virginity?)

“I want,” Ignis half-lies, “to please you.” It’s risky to speak—it lets Aldercapt’s thumb press into his mouth, between Ignis’s lips, and it’s easy to imagine it as a precursor to Aldercapt’s cock. How stupid, to want to cry over _that_.

Aldercapt hums, then slips his thumb from Ignis’s mouth. The relief is immediate, and lasts even as Aldercapt slides his hand down to Ignis’s neck. Aldercapt isn’t much taller than Ignis, but his hand feels immense when it spans Ignis’s throat, his thumb and fingers bracketing the artery on either side of Ignis’s throat, his palm pressing against Ignis’s larynx. Aldercapt’s fingers dig in, his nails scraping Ignis’s neck, and he says, “Your heart is beating so quickly.”

That, it seems, is what gets Aldercapt hard, his cock slowly swelling and thickening in Ignis’s hand as he murmurs to Ignis, “You seem so distressed, my dear.”

But Ignis doesn’t have the luxury to worry about Aldercapt’s growing interest, or to consider what this may mean. He doesn’t dare slow down or pull away, because he doesn’t know what else will get Aldercapt hard again if—god, please no—Aldercapt goes soft again.

Ignis’s relief is colored with victory when Aldercapt gives a small groan, when his hand tightens almost imperceptibly around Ignis’s throat when Ignis twists his hand on an upward stroke. If this is as bad as it will be, then. Then. 

“Better,” Aldercapt tells Ignis, his fingers digging into Ignis’s neck again. Ignis swallows beneath Aldercapt’s hand, his throat feeling pinched in Aldercapt’s grip. Aldercapt’s eyes drop to Ignis’s throat, and Ignis swallows again; he can feel Aldercapt’s cock twitch in his hand. He wonders if he’ll be sick. 

“Better,” Aldercapt says again. He pulls his hand away from Ignis’s throat slowly. “Perhaps you do have some skills, hmm?”

“I hadn’t,” Ignis begins to say, though he’s not sure why. There’s little point in trying to work his way through Aldercapt’s veiled words, particularly when Aldercapt is interrupting him again, speaking to Ignis as though he is a child:

“Hush,” Aldercapt murmurs. “Here, rest your head, my dear.” 

He’s patting his thigh, and Ignis shuffles forward enough that he can lay his head where Aldercapt has patted. It leaves Ignis’s face only inches from Aldercapt’s cock, and the nearness of it overwhelms several of his senses. Aldercapt’s cock has grown dark with its erection, and when the foreskin slips down, Ignis can see the head glistening from precum. It feels heavy and hard in his hand, and when Ignis’s hand slides down to the base, the bulb of Aldercapt’s knot is unmistakable, like a promise. And the smell—it’s sweat and precum and pheromones, pouring out from Aldercapt’s groin, heavy enough in the air that when Ignis sucks in a breath through his mouth, he can taste it.

His body reacts accordingly, a whisper of arousal building deep in his belly, curling tight and hot. He can feel his own cock throb with interest, working its way to hardness, and his hole feels hot and empty. It is humiliating, how quickly his body has bucked off Ignis’s distaste—it’s shameful, how there is an ache in the back of his throat, how something in him wants to suck Aldercapt’s cock into his mouth. 

“How quick and eager,” Aldercapt’s voice says from above Ignis’s head, and Ignis feels sick when he realizes that he has begun to rock against Aldercapt’s leg. He tries to still his body, but Aldercapt pinches his shoulder, saying, “Ah-ah-ah, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re an omega, after all.”

Ignis clenches his eyes shut, keeps them shut as Aldercapt taps at Ignis’s shoulder, where he’d pinched him moments before, then pushes Ignis onto his back. Aldercapt’s fingers are still dry, and they are equal parts gentle and sharp: a brush of Aldercapt’s thumb along the ticklish skin of Ignis’s elbow, then the scrape of a nail on the delicate skin between Ignis’s thigh and hip. 

When he slips his fingers back to Ignis’s arse, he chuckles again, then pushes a finger into Ignis’s hole as he says, “To get so wet so easily—I’m flattered, my dear.”

And Ignis is. He’s wet, and he’s open—he can feel it, how easily Aldercapt is shoving a second finger into Ignis’s hole, like Ignis is a dog panting for it. And he is—god, but he is, groaning as Aldercapt thrusts his fingers inside his hole. He can even hear the squelch of it, and it’s shameful how that—the squelch of his own hole, wet and open, desperate for a cock from Niflheim—has Ignis’s hips canting up blindly. 

The only warning Ignis gets is Aldercapt pulling his fingers out of Ignis’s hole, and Ignis doesn’t recognize it for what it is. He groans again, lifting his arse off the bed as he tries to follow Aldercapt’s fingers. Then Aldercapt is grabbing Ignis’s thighs, pushing them further apart; Ignis lets it happen, helps it along—lets his legs go loose so Aldercapt can find room between them. It feels good, the breadth of Aldercapt’s body between Ignis’s legs, the width of his torso and his waist and his upper thighs. That is what Ignis is stuck on, the pleasure of Aldercapt’s presence between Ignis’s legs, of another person’s body pressing against the sensitive flesh of Ignis’s inner thighs, when Aldercapt grabs one of Ignis’s arsecheeks, spreading him open so he can thrust inside.

It feels like Ignis is choking—like Aldercapt’s cock is the first tipped domino, starting a cascade that runs up Ignis’s body. Ignis’s hole spasms, tightening until Ignis thinks he might tear, and Aldercapt pushes harder, further. Ignis’s stomach is twisting faster and hotter, pain and pleasure building on each other, and his lungs are seizing up in his chest. And his throat—it feels like his throat is choking on his breath, or maybe on the moan that’s trying to make its way out. It’s like his whole body is rebelling against him, pulling him this way and that; it’s like his body is as baffled and uncertain as his brain, trying to pull Aldercapt in and trying to push Aldercapt out. 

Aldercapt keeps pushing, deeper and deeper, and Ignis becomes aware that his eyes are open. The ceiling seems to be far away from him, farther than he remembers, and he stares up at it as his hands scrabble across the bed, searching. His whole body is searching for something, a yearning hunger that’s growing as the burn in his hole grows hotter. Aldercapt’s cock is splitting him open, and the more Aldercapt fills him, the more Ignis can feel his body twisting in on itself, trying to reach—

“God,” he moans, miserable with it. Thrilled with it. He grabs a fistful of sheets and pulls it toward himself. He thinks—he thinks he wants to crawl away, drag himself off Aldercapt’s cock. Aldercapt pushes again—it has to be done, he has to be fully in by now, _god_ —and Ignis drags his handful of sheets over his mouth.

One more push, and Aldercapt grows still. When Ignis lowers his eyes, he sees that Aldercapt is staring at him, his mouth turned down in a frown. Ignis gasps for breath, barely able to catch any air through the sheets covering his mouth, and Aldercapt looks furious. It’s only for a brief moment, though; Aldercapt’s face smooths out, his mouth straightening to a line, and he again tuts at Ignis like Ignis is a child.

“Let me hear you,” he tells Ignis, and Ignis groans into his fistful of sheets as Aldercapt pulls out slowly, then thrusts in. “I want to hear how much you want this.”

It feels like Ignis is being dragged along by Aldercapt, pulled and then pushed. He feels something slide along his arse, and he realizes it’s his slick just as Aldercapt huffs and says, “How much you want this, how wet you are. What would people say, if they knew?”

It seems to go on forever, Ignis’s body spiraling tighter and tighter, then stalling when Aldercapt slows his thrusts; again, and again, and again. Aldercapt is holding himself above Ignis with trembling arms, but now and again, when he slows his thrusts, he’ll fondle Ignis’s body with rough, impatient fingers: pinching Ignis’s sides, pushing a nail into one of Ignis’s nipples, slotting his fingers into Ignis’s mouth. 

Ignis is writhing at it all, at the scratches Aldercapt is dragging down his body and the bruises Aldercapt is digging into his flesh. Ignis moans loudly, his voice breaking when he feels the beginning of Aldercapt’s knot. It swells too fast and too large—feels like it’s tearing Ignis in half—and Ignis feels his hips buck upward. His orgasm slams into him, his body spasming as his hole clenches down on the knot.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts, the ripples of pleasure that have him moaning long and low. He can feel the pulse of Aldercapt’s cock in his arse, thinks he can maybe feel the spurts of Aldercapt’s come. He thinks that might be the feeling of heavy fullness that’s building up in his pelvis, the weight that’s dragging him down as his orgasm leaves him weak and wrung-out.

He hears Aldercapt chuckle, but it seems to come from a distance, and it doesn’t quite penetrate his skull until he hears Aldercapt say, “For a virgin, you certainly sounded like a whore.”

The shame burns worse than the arousal had, hotter and more fiercely. There’s nowhere for the burn of his hurt to go, nowhere for Ignis to lash out in his pain; nowhere he can even slink off to, like a beaten dog. He’s stuck on Aldercapt’s knot, trapped in this marriage bed—lying where his king flung him, his legs spread wide for another country.

x

He wakes in the early morning, not long after dawn. He’s not used to sharing a bed, and he’s not sure if it’s the discomfort of Aldercapt’s nearness or the memory of Aldercapt’s cock in his arse that has him waking up so abruptly. Ignis lies still, wondering if he can pretend to be asleep, or if he even needs to; then he wonders if he’ll spend the rest of his life like this: lying still every morning, hoping that his husband isn’t aware he’s awake. 

He’s always been of the opinion that one should try to make the best of a situation, no matter how unfortunate. That is, after all, the best way to make something manageable—to make something doable. This is probably one of those times that he should start as he means to go on—but it’s too late for that already. This started last night, and Ignis isn’t foolish enough to think that he’ll be able to redraw what lines Aldercapt has already drawn. There’s nothing to manage here, other than Ignis’s ability to remain within the lines of Aldercapt’s expectations.

Ignis is still lying on his side, watching a streak of sunlight sneak between the curtains, when he hears Aldercapt begin to wake behind him. Aldercapt’s breathing changes, deepening; Ignis begins to reconsider all of his ideas of managing this, wondering if he should try to sneak away to the bathroom. Aldercapt wakes properly before Ignis can figure out how to extract himself from the bed, however. He feels Aldercapt move behind him, rolling closer. The mattress dips beneath him, and the slack in the sheets is being pulled to Aldercapt’s side of the bed. 

It’s just manageable—it’s just doable—to push back the flinch when Aldercapt touches him, grasping Ignis’s shoulder and tugging. Ignis rolls over onto his back. Aldercapt’s voice is still rough from sleep, and he asks in a chiding tone, “Won’t you wish your husband a good morning?”

“Good morning, Iedolas,” Ignis parrots back obediently. Aldercapt looks pleased at that, and Ignis watches as he pushes himself up onto one elbow, just enough that he is leaning over Ignis. It is oppressive.

“Come, my dear,” Aldercapt tells him. “Give me a kiss.”

Ignis obeys this, too. He lifts himself up so that he can kiss Aldercapt. He can’t remember if he kissed Aldercapt last night; his mind was too frazzled then, and it’s too frazzled now, too. If he had, though, it’s different now. Aldercapt’s breath is sour from sleep, and the kiss deepens when Aldercapt wants it to—when he raises a hand so that he can grab Ignis’s chin and turn Ignis’s face as he desires. He digs his thumb and middle finger into the hinges of Ignis’s jaw, and Ignis opens his mouth, making room for Aldercapt’s tongue. 

Ignis opens his legs, too, making room for Aldercapt between his thighs. The slick and come from last night have dried on his skin, and it flakes away, yanking at the tender skin and hair when Aldercapt begins to fondle at him. 

Maybe it’s because of the early hour, or maybe it’s because Ignis’s body has already associated the sex from last night with the presence of a person in Ignis’s bed, or maybe it’s just because Ignis is an omega, just as everyone’s always said. Whichever reason, he’s already a little wet, his hole loose and warm and eager to open for Aldercapt’s fingers.

“I wonder,” Aldercapt says idly as he pulls back from the kiss, “if you’re always so eager in the morning.”

Ignis closes his eyes, laying an arm across them for good measure. Aldercapt stretches him quickly and indifferently, thrusting in two, then three fingers as Ignis’s breathing grows more strained. Ignis is panting by the time Aldercapt fucks into him properly, his hole stretching around Aldercapt’s cock. 

Aldercapt feels bigger than he did last night, or maybe it’s just that Ignis’s hole feels tighter. Either way, it makes Ignis sob, his body unsure if it’s pleasure or pain. He comes when Aldercapt knots him, his cock spurting come onto his belly. He can feel his arse clench around Aldercapt’s knot, pulsing as though his body is greedy for Aldercapt’s seed.

By the time they leave the bedroom, Ignis feels like nothing more than a series of bruises. It’s all little aches and pains, twinges that cause him to hesitate and consider how he walks and how he sits—and then there are the bruises on his mind, the certainty that everyone in the Citadel, Lucian and Niflheimar alike, knows why Ignis’s stride is strained and cautious. They each know that Ignis laid back and spread his legs; maybe they’re wondering whether he moaned for it, if he’d been as eager as omegas are said to be.

The smiles, whether amused or mocking, are bad enough; the sympathy and concern is worse. 

“Ignis,” Noct says, sidling close with a sidelong scowl toward Aldercapt. The misery on Noct’s face is the worst, because he looks how Ignis feels, and Ignis doesn’t know how to fix it—has no idea of how to soothe Noct’s distress, or even his own. (Perhaps, the sooner he is gone and the sooner that Noct can put him out of mind….)

“Your Highness,” Ignis says in response as Aldercapt’s fingers tighten to a pinch on Ignis’s elbow. Noct flinches, looking hurt, and Ignis tries to smile at him. “Our apologies for missing the king’s breakfast.”

Distress, hurt, and now there’s disgust on Noct’s face, too. Ignis should warn Gladio that Noct’s face is too easily read, ask that Gladio try to—that Gladio do more to prepare Noct for rule, to address the deficiencies in Ignis’s preparations, before Noct manages to make any great enemies.

“It’s fine.” Noct’s eyes flick to the side, toward Aldercapt, then down to where Aldercapt is gripping Ignis’s elbow. “I just, uh, I wanted to talk to you.”

Ignis hesitates, unsure whether he should look at Aldercapt, or if he should deny Noct outright. Which will Aldercapt prefer? Deference? Or a pointed break between Ignis’s previous and current positions? Before Ignis can decide, Noct asks, “If you don’t mind, Your Majesty?”

“Not at all,” Aldercapt murmurs, and his fingers tighten on Ignis’s elbow again, just for a moment, before he is letting go. He moves his hand to Ignis’s back, just barely above Ignis’s arse—low and proprietary—and Ignis feels himself begin to flush as Aldercapt nudges Ignis forward. “I could hardly deny my husband his farewells.”

“Thank you, Iedolas,” Ignis manages to say, his throat tight with embarrassment. When Aldercapt’s fingers trail over Ignis’s back, he has to close his eyes and fight back the desire to pull away and to shudder. 

“Come and find me after,” Aldercapt says, and when Ignis has nodded, Aldercapt leaves, walking down the hall as Ignis and Noct watch him.

Noct barely waits until Aldercapt has turned a corner—heading toward the courtyard where they were meant to have breakfast, presumably—before he’s hissing, “I hate him, he’s awful—”

“He’s fine,” Ignis tries to interrupt, but Noct doesn’t even pretend to be listening.

“Ignis, he’s the worst. He was—”

“Noct, please.” Ignis knows he shouldn’t, that it’s improper and unseemly, but he reaches out to touch Noct’s arm. Noct’s too agitated, though, and he brushes Ignis’s hand off roughly. Ignis’s decision to touch Noct was improper and unseemly, yes, but it was also ill-planned, because he was thoughtless enough to touch Noct with his sore wrist. When Noct jostles Ignis’s hand and wrist, Ignis hisses involuntarily, pulling his arm back.

Noct’s face goes through terrible expressions: horror, disgust, anger; finally a heartbreak that makes Ignis want desperately to soothe him. “Are you hurt? Did he _hurt_ you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Ignis looks down at his wrist in consideration. It’s red and swollen, but only a bit—just enough to notice if one knows to look for it. It’s hardly anything serious, and he tells Noct that: “It’s not even a sprain. I barely twisted it.”

“Bullshit.” Noct is still looking heartbroken and stubbornly furious, like he’s ready to begin a diplomatic incident. Ignis risks grabbing onto Noct’s arm with his other hand, tugging lightly in hopes of holding Noct’s attention.

“Noct,” Ignis says gently, “I was clumsy and I twisted my wrist.” Noct looks disbelieving, and Ignis offers him what he hopes looks like a rueful smile. “I was a bit embarrassed. You know that I—I’ve never been particularly good at more, ah, intimate situations. I was flustered, and I managed to twist my wrist under myself when I put my weight down wrong.”

“Specs.” Noct is looking less disbelieving, which Ignis will count as a success. He’s shifting his weight on his feet, but he hasn’t brushed off Ignis’s hand yet. Ignis waits patiently as Noct opens and closes his mouth, clearly trying to build himself up to saying something.

“You know you can come back, right?” Noct finally asks. He’s at least lowered his voice, and he no longer looks like he’s about to storm after Aldercapt. “If you ever—any reason. You don’t have to stay there.”

It’s sweet, even if it’s entirely wrong. Ignis rotates his wrist gingerly as he says, “You know it doesn’t work that way. There are obligations, and they’ll have to be fulfilled if we want the treaty to remain in effect.” He sympathizes with Noct’s distress, though; it’s just as miserable for him when he says, “I can’t leave him, Noct.”

Noct scowls and mutters, “He’s old anyway. He’ll probably die in a couple years and you can come back then.”

Ignis should scold Noct, should tell Noct how incredibly foolish it is to speak—even in jest—about a sovereign dying, especially when the peace between their nations is so new and fragile. Instead he says, “I won’t.”

Noct looks baffled and hurt, and Ignis tries to soften the blow: “I’ll have children, Noct. That’s half the reason for this marriage, so that Iedolas will have heirs. I’ll have children, and one of them will be an emperor or an empress. Niflheim will be their home, so it will have to be mine, too.”


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t take much with him, which is for the best, as his luggage is promptly discarded when he arrives in Gralea. 

It is done under the supervision of Aldercapt, who calls Ignis to come and watch. He stands where Aldercapt directs him, rests his hand on Aldercapt’s arm as Aldercapt indicates, and watches as his luggage is opened and his belongings are examined and cast aside. Ignis had expected something of this sort, and so there is nothing that he particularly cares for; he left everything with sentimental value in Insomnia, in his uncle’s care. All that he’s brought to Gralea, and all that he loses on that first day, is a half-dozen books, a fair amount of clothing, and the ability to dress himself as he wishes.

“You must understand,” Aldercapt says in a sympathetic tone, “that we are quite different from Lucis. It wouldn’t do for my husband to be seen dismissing our traditions and our culture.”

“Of course, Iedolas,” Ignis answers, watching as his trousers and shirts and waistcoats and jackets are bundled together. He wonders if they’ll be donated to a charity, or if they’ll be thrown out; maybe they’ll be burned, or just put into storage to rot; maybe he is projecting too much. “I understand,” he tells Aldercapt, “and I would never want to seem unappreciative or disrespectful of my new home.”

Aldercapt looks pleased at this, and he grabs Ignis’s sore wrist, pulling it up so that he can kiss Ignis’s hand. It must look kind to the servants, perhaps even indulgent—their emperor, coddling the foreign omega who’s come to Gralea in trousers. How magnanimous Aldercapt must seem. 

“You’ll be taught your proper place,” Aldercapt tells Ignis, his breath hot and humid against Ignis’s palm. Ignis’s wrist twinges, just a tiny spark of pain, and Ignis makes himself smile.

“Thank you,” Ignis says carefully, in front of the servants and in front of the guards, in front of the open door where anyone passing by can listen and can see, “for your patience with me.”

“It is my place as your husband,” Aldercapt says, and Ignis thinks he means to sound tender, but it’s hard to find the tenderness in it when Aldercapt shows Ignis—and the servants and the guards, and whoever else may be lurking beyond the open door, watching and listening—what Ignis’s place is: 

“These as well,” Aldercapt says.

He motions at Ignis’s clothes, and Ignis begins to undress himself: jacket and waistcoat; shoes and trousers; shirt and underthings. He feels numb by the time he is naked, though he’s not sure if it’s from the coolness of the Gralean spring or if it is because he can see the servants sneaking looks at him as they gather the last of Ignis’s discarded things.

Aldercapt is already hard, though, so at least there is that—at least Ignis is spared the indignity of trying to bring Aldercapt to hardness in front of Aldercapt’s servants and guards.

x

The wardrobe he is given is as different from what he wore in Insomnia as possible. It is the sort of wardrobe Ignis would have imagined for any upper class, traditional Niflheimar omega: that is to say, it is entirely populated by skirts and dresses, a type of clothing that is unfamiliar to him. 

There are photos, he’s certain, of him in skirts or dresses, but they’re from when Ignis was two or three, and there are just as many photographs of him—at two or three—in tiny pairs of trousers. As a child, teenager, and adult, Ignis tended solely toward trousers, and now that he’s been thrust into skirts and dresses, he finds each offering the conflicting situation of both too much and too little. The length of each skirt and dress, as well as the cut, tends to trip Ignis up, the fabric catching around and between his legs in strange ways. At the same time, he’s overly aware of how bare his legs are beneath each skirt and dress; he shivers whenever the fabric brushes against the back of his thighs, and he shudders whenever Aldercapt grabs a handful of fabric and slowly begins to pull Ignis’s skirt up. 

Even the colors slapped onto him are at the far end of what Ignis is used to. Everything he wears seems to be pale: whites and creams, faded blues and purples, fabrics that can only be called pink or yellow or green if one is feeling especially complimentary. All of the paleness only serves to make Ignis look washed out, as though he’s a piece of cloth left out to be bleached by the sun, or a canvas stripped of paint. 

And worst of all—worst of all is the pockets, or the lack thereof. There is nowhere for him to put his hands, no way for him to hide his fists when he’s angry or hurt or frustrated. There are no pockets for him to hide anything, whether his fists or his phone or even a piece of paper. Then again, he doesn’t have a phone—that was left back in Insomnia, when Aldercapt had said apologetically, _I’m afraid the technology and services aren’t quite compatible, my dear. You will have to get a new one when we arrive._

There is, of course, no new phone; Ignis hadn’t expected one, and so at least he hasn’t been disappointed. Still. Still. _Still_ , the fact of the matter is that Ignis hasn’t even been afforded pockets, because the fact of the matter is that Ignis owns nothing, not even his own clenched fists. The _fact of the matter_ is that Ignis has lost his country and his family and his friends, his job and his title and his independence; Ignis is losing his body, and it’s this—this lack of pockets and all that it entails—that is doing the most to break him down.

x

 

**From: Ignis S. Aldercapt < I.S.Aldercapt@niflheim.gov >  
** To: Prompto A. < chocobros4eva@li.org >  
Date: Mon, May 31, 756 at 11:53 AM  
Subject: Re: how’s niflheim?? 

Dear Prompto,

Thank you for the photos from Noct’s wedding. They are all skillfully done. You have a wonderful talent for photography, and I look forward to whatever photos you have time to send me in the future. 

I meant to send a photo or two in return, but I’ve managed to mislay my phone. I’ll send a few photos once I have located it again. 

No, Gralea isn’t particularly different. It’s not as large as Insomnia, but it feels a bit like home. Skyscrapers are skyscrapers, you could say. That said, the climate is quite different in Niflheim. It’s almost summer, but it’s still cold here. I’ve had to get an entirely new wardrobe. Tell Noct. I’m sure he’ll be grateful he didn’t have to wait as I tried on clothes.

What plans do you have for the summer? Is your family still planning on visiting Altissia? I look forward to your photos if you go. 

I look forward to your next email.

Best wishes,  
Ignis

 

> **On May 25, 756, at 7:53 PM, Prompto A. < chocobros4eva@li.org > wrote:**

>Hey Iggy, 

>I hope you’re doing ok! How’s Niflheim? And what’s Gralea like? Is it really different?

>We’re missing you here. :( We made it through the wedding, somehow. Tbh, I kinda thought it was gonna go down in flames, but I guess we pulled through. It was hard without you, though. 

>I’m sending some pics: Lunafreya and Noct, Gladio & his fam at the wedding, me & my fam at the wedding, Lunafreya’s dogs. 

>Let me know how you’re doing, ok?

>\--Prompto

 

x

He’s pregnant before the end of the summer, which is surprising not because of its quickness but because of its lateness. Aldercapt is tireless in more ways than one, particularly when it comes to his ‘husbandly duties’ and his rights to Ignis’s body. Few nights have ended without Aldercapt thrusting away between Ignis’s thighs, and just as few days have begun without Ignis being woken by Aldercapt rolling on top of him, his hands plucking at Ignis’s nightgown and his breath sour from sleep as he murmurs, _Spread your legs, my dear. Yes, just like that._

Most days have involved Ignis sitting stiffly in his chair at breakfast, painfully aware of Aldercapt’s come dripping from his arse, or Ignis trying not to squirm or grimace as he stands in attendance in court, feeling cold come trickle slowly down his thighs. It’s been exhausting, this constant awareness of his body: the bruised soreness of his cock and his balls and his arse, the tackiness of drying slick and come between his thighs, the vulnerability of his skirts and dresses that Aldercapt has only to lift up.

So no, there’s nothing particularly surprising about his pregnancy, other than how long it has taken. That seems to be a thought both he and Aldercapt have in common.

“I had wondered when you would finally catch,” Aldercapt remarks in the early fall, when he and his court are informed of Ignis’s condition, as it were. 

Ignis hadn’t expected privacy in this, but that does little for easing the sting of humiliation when he hears sniggers through the room. There’s little he can do, though, and even less that won’t carry undesirable consequences. He holds his peace, and he holds his tongue, and he holds his desire to note that it’s far more likely the fault lies with Aldercapt’s far older body than with Ignis’s. 

Aldercapt looks Ignis over, an overly-obvious consideration that is out of place in court. It’s the type of look that is expected in bars and clubs, or even on the street; it is demeaning, and Ignis feels his face begin to flush as there are more sniggers and titters behind him. He knows what is thought of him here, and what the people around him are thinking of him now: spread open, whenever and however Aldercapt wishes it. Whatever worth Ignis had as an advisor and companion to the prince was superseded by his worth as a womb and an easily spread pair of legs, and even that worth is suspect—the court is sniggering because Ignis has stunk of Aldercapt and has dripped Aldercapt’s seed almost every day, and it still took him months to become pregnant. Even in this—spreading his legs, being little more than a hole attached to a womb—Ignis has stumbled in full view of the court.

“At least,” Aldercapt says, another of his backhanded comments, “you aren’t infertile. Now,” he rises from his throne with a low groan, “you are looking pale, my dear. Come, you should lie down.”

“Of course,” Ignis answers dully. When Aldercapt offers him his arm, Ignis takes it, letting Aldercapt lead him down the length of the room. 

He can feel eyes watching him, looking him over just as Aldercapt did; they’ll see the whiteness of his knuckles and the flush on his face, the damp hair at his temples and the thinness of his mouth. They know that Aldercapt will fuck him, and he wonders how they are imagining him: On his knees, glowering as Aldercapt uses his mouth? Or on his back, writhing and moaning and unconcerned with whoever is puffing away between his legs? Or bent over like a bitch, taking whatever is given to him?

When they reach their bedroom, Aldercapt rests a heavy hand on Ignis’s shoulder. It doesn’t take much—only a bit of pressure—for Ignis to kneel beneath Aldercapt’s hand. Aldercapt has never made Ignis kneel before him before, and the difference in perspective—in how far Ignis must tilt his head back to look at Aldercapt’s face, in how low he feels—is dizzying. Ignis hisses in discomfort as Aldercapt fists his other hand in Ignis’s hair, pulling his head close.

Aldercapt must not be hard yet, as his trousers are still loose at his groin, but Ignis thinks he can smell him: sweat and skin and semen, the stale scent of sex. The smell—real or imaginary—is enough to kick off conflicting reactions: Ignis’s stomach rolls uneasily, nausea beginning to creep up toward his throat, but his cock is growing hard while his hole clenches on nothing, feeling warm and empty.

“It’d be a shame,” Aldercapt says, a thoughtful look on his face, “not to use that mouth of yours now.”

And that is how it goes. 

Pregnancy seems to do nothing to dissuade Aldercapt from Ignis’s body. Aldercapt fucks Ignis as regularly during the pregnancy as he’d fucked Ignis before the pregnancy; the only difference is that now Aldercapt will sometimes take Ignis’s mouth rather than Ignis’s arse. If Ignis had a preference, and if his preference actually mattered, he would rather Aldercapt use his arse. 

Being fucked in the arse has its cons, of course, chief amongst them being that his body tends to miss the memo that he doesn’t want to be fucked at all. There’s something uniquely demeaning about coming on Aldercapt’s knot, about hearing himself moan and cry like a pornstar. The pros, though—at least for the first few months after the wedding—far outweigh the cons: he doesn’t have to be quite so visibly intimate with Aldercapt’s cock, he doesn’t have to deal with the aftertaste of come (and frequently vomit), he’s required to do little work other than spreading his legs, and he can—at least until the pregnancy—pretend that the sex is solely being done in order to fulfill the requirements of the marriage settlement, i.e., conceiving an heir. Most of those pros still stand after Ignis is pregnant, so when he has the choice—which isn’t often, but it does happen now and again—he tends to spread his legs, lay back, and (as the saying goes) think of Lucis. 

Most days, though, Aldercapt tells Ignis how he wants him.

“Lift your skirt, my dear,” he says some days, when Ignis has been brought to his office. Ignis will do so, bunching the material above his waist and leaning over the desk, putting his arse on—as Aldercapt says in a biting compliment—'good display’. Aldercapt will fuck him, knotting him if he has the time; afterward he’s finished, Aldercapt will pull out, and Ignis will squirm, his hole gaping. The come will slide out of his hole slowly, a slither than will make Ignis shudder, and Aldercapt will leave him like that, used and open, his skirt still bunched around his waist.

Other days, Aldercapt will dig his fingers into Ignis’s shoulder, in the delicate join between Ignis’s breastbone and collarbone, until Ignis buckles to his knees. Aldercapt is always handsy, scratching and pinching, but when he’s fucking Ignis in the arse, his hands are usually busy on Ignis’s thighs or torso or arms. When he’s fucking Ignis’s mouth, Aldercapt’s hands unerringly land on Ignis’s face—a thumb digging into the corner of Ignis’s mouth, or fingertips tracing Ignis’s eyesocket, or a palm sliding down to cup the front of Ignis’s throat, like Aldercapt is considering whether he can shove his cock far enough down Ignis’s throat to feel it from the outside. 

x

“There’s been talk that you might return to Lucis for the new year,” Aldercapt remarks at breakfast in early December.

Ignis only read his uncle’s email a few minutes before coming to breakfast; Aldercapt was probably informed about the email’s contents hours ago, if not last night. It means Ignis has had little time to consider his arguments for or against visiting Lucis, while Aldercapt has been able to consider his arguments at length. It means they are on as unequal footing in this as they are in all things. 

“There was a suggestion.” He tries to sound mild as he says it, but Aldercapt’s raised eyebrows imply that he wasn’t quite successful. He clears his throat and tries again, saying, “My uncle asked if I would be able to return. He was hoping I would feel settled enough that I could visit for the holiday.”

Aldercapt hums, sounding only vaguely interested. Ignis watches as he pierces a piece of fish with his fork, then lifts it to his mouth. He chews slowly, swallows slowly, and then does it again, making Ignis wait for his decision. 

“I am hesitant,” Aldercapt says at last, when there can be no question at who has control of this conversation. (There’s never been question about who has the control, and Ignis is exhausted by these continual games.) “It can be a difficult journey, particularly in winter, and in your delicate condition….” He trails off, nodding his head toward Ignis. “I do hope you understand.”

“Of course I understand,” Ignis says, fisting his hands in his lap. Aldercapt is now sipping at a glass of water, and Ignis thinks of those scenes in sitcoms and movies, when a spurned or angry lover throws a glass of water or wine or liquor into their partner’s face. What a life that would be—to be able to lash out in anger, to be able to storm from a room. To be able to say no. What a life that must be. “I’m certain my uncle will be—that he’ll be grateful for the care you show me.”

Aldercapt smiles genially, and he stops behind Ignis’s chair when he is leaving the room. He rests his hands on Ignis’s shoulders, his thumbs and forefingers brushing against the skin bared by the neckline of Ignis’s dress. Ignis holds himself still, waiting it out as Aldercapt strokes a thumb across his skin.

“How lucky I am,” Aldercapt says idly, “to have such an agreeable husband.” 

x

 

**From: Ignis S. Aldercapt < I.S.Aldercapt@niflheim.gov >  
** To: G. Amicitia < gamicitia@citadel.lu >  
Date: Sun, Jan 2, 757 at 4:07 PM  
Subject: Re: New Years 

Dear Gladio,

I’m wishing you and your family a Happy New Year. I hope the holiday’s going well. Have you made any resolutions this year? Any that you’re more likely to keep?

I meant to email sooner, but I’m afraid time got away from me. It seems New Year’s is a bit of a to-do, especially in Gralea. This email will be short, because there’s another dinner shortly. 

The weather’s just as ‘shit’ as you say. The snow seems rather endless. The upside, though, is that spicy foods seem to be the thing during winter. I think you and Prompto would quite enjoy it, though Noct probably wouldn’t eat a thing.

All that said, your subtlety is astounding. Regarding the rumors: Iedolas and I are expecting a child in May. The pregnancy is going well, but I thought it best to stay home during the holiday. I am sorry I missed the celebrations, though.

Give my best to your father and to Iris.

Best wishes,  
Ignis

 

> **On Dec 12, 756, at 9:39 PM, G. Amicitia < gamicitia@citadel.lu > wrote:**

>Iggy,

>Heard you might come back for the New Year. Are you?

>I get you’re probably busy and there’s a lot going on there, but it’d be great if you could come visit for a while. It’d probably get Noct and Iris off my back, too, and you’d get out of that shit weather.

>Don’t have much news here, I think Prompto tells you most of it. Think you probably have more exciting news if the rumors are true.

>Hope you’re doing alright. Let me know if you’re coming back for New Years. It’d be great to see you.

>BW,  
>G

 

x

The new year begins much the same as the old year ended: snow, and cold, and a lonely boredom that has Ignis losing longer and longer stretches of time. 

There’s nothing for him to do here in Niflheim, other than spreading his legs and opening his mouth and being pregnant. They’re all passive, brainless skills, on the same level as anything desired of an animal kept for breeding. Ignis is an arse, and a mouth, and a womb—hardly the stuff the legends, and far from what he’d expected to be when he turned twenty-three. 

But then, there are a lot of things Ignis had never expected to be, or thought he was. For example, Ignis had never thought he was particularly hateful before, but the more of himself that he loses—the less of himself that he still has—the more he realizes that the innermost parts of himself are as foreign and unwieldy as his growing belly. He’s despair and anger and hatred. He is so much hatred.

He hates Niflheim and all her people. He hates the men and he hates the women and he hates the children; he hates their history and their culture, and he hates that they’ve won this war. He hates that they take and they take and they _take_ , that they’ve been taking from Tenebrae and Accordo and Lucis for four hundred years. He hates that they’re never satisfied—that Aldercapt is never _satisfied_ —and that they just keep taking.

He hates that they took him away from his home, from his family and his friends. He hates that they took him away from Noct. He hates that it’s still not enough, that they’re still not satisfied—that they just keep taking—

And he hates that he lets them. He hates that he sits by the window, lost in his quiet, lonely misery, watching the snow fall for hours. He hates that the ungainliness of his belly makes him anxious and loathe to leave his rooms, and he hates how aware of his weakness he’s become, his arms and legs atrophying from months of sitting by the window. He hates that he’s complacent in this, and he hates that he’s complicit in this. He hates that as angry as he is, he still can’t—won’t—do anything.

So he spends his hours sitting by the window, tapping his belly and waiting for the baby to roll over and stretch. He lets the hours pass him by, and he tries to let his mind pass him by, too—tries to make his brain as quiet and empty as the snow-covered streets far below his window. 

“And how long will this continue?” Aldercapt asks in early February, during another snowstorm. Ignis crosses his arms over the top of his belly and looks back out the window. 

It’s late at night, and the sky has an orange glow, the snow and the clouds reflecting Gralea’s lights. It’s like an inverse of Insomnia’s Wall, the light that had covered Insomnia every day of Ignis’s life. It’s not the same, but there’re enough similarities that Ignis can almost pretend—

“Come to bed,” Aldercapt commands him, and Ignis pushes himself up from his chair, following Aldercapt to their bed.

Aldercapt takes him on his hands and knees, Ignis’s belly hanging beneath him, and when they’re tied together, Aldercapt maneuvers the both of them onto their sides. Aldercapt doesn’t pay any more attention to Ignis’s belly than he does to any other part of Ignis’s body; he seems mostly uninterested in the baby, outside his use of the pregnancy and baby as means to further constrain Ignis. 

Still, Ignis takes care to avoid drawing attention to his belly. He lies quietly on his side, his hands tucked up so that they are pillowing his head, and he takes pains to keep his breathing as steady as he can, to reveal as little discomfort as he can when Alderapt’s hands stray over his belly.

When they’re finally untied and Aldercapt has rolled away from him, Ignis pulls a pillow beneath his head and folds his arms over his belly. Like this—with his arms crossed—his right hand is hidden beneath his left arm, and even if Aldercapt looks—even if Aldercapt is curious, and even if Aldercapt wants to find something more to take—he won’t be able to see Ignis’s fingers tapping against his belly, or his thumb smoothing over the tight, stretched skin.

In the morning, he’ll have to check his email. There’ll be messages waiting for him, sent by friends and family for his birthday. The messages will have already been read by one or another of Aldercapt’s servants, and whether Ignis likes it or not, he’ll have to send something back to at least a few of the emails—will have to determine the best way to skirt the fears and the concerns and the endless, endless questions. He’ll have to find some way to tell the truth, without leaving another opening for Aldercapt to take hold of, without leaving another piece of himself exposed for Aldercapt to take.

He closes his eyes, wanting to rub them; instead, he keeps his arms folded over his belly, his fingers tapping his belly as he waits for the baby to tap back and let him know that someone else is there, too.

x

“Your breasts have begun to let down,” his midwife tells him on the last day of April. It’s a bit pointless, really—Ignis is fully aware that his breasts are ‘letting down’, so to speak; he’s been lactating— _leaking_ —for two days now. The tingling rush that runs through his breasts is distracting at best, and his nipples are tender enough that most of his clothes have him squirming in discomfort. Combined with Aldercapt’s indifferent fondling, Ignis is sore enough that some nights he can’t sleep.

“They have,” Ignis answers as mildly as he can. The midwife has been kind to him, or at least as kind as any Niflheimar, and it’d be foolish to risk alienating her, especially while he’s pregnant. They may not be friends—will most likely never be friends—but he doesn’t need to make her an enemy, either. 

“Mmm.” She motions for Ignis to undress, and he does, undoing the first ten or so buttons of his dress so that he can slip it from his shoulders. It takes a little shoving, but he’s able to push the dress to his waist, below the heavy bulge of his belly. It leaves his torso mostly naked, only partially covered by a short camisole that is growing dark and damp at his nipples. 

And his midwife is kind. She tuts over the stretch marks on Ignis’s belly—a little wider and a little redder than a few days ago, perhaps—but she doesn’t say a word about the bruises on Ignis’s hips or the red pinch marks on his arms. It’s kind of her, the way she pretends not to know that Ignis pushed his dress down, rather than pulling it up, because Aldercapt’s semen is still smeared between Ignis’s thighs. 

When she touches his belly, it’s short and impersonal, her hands pressing against his belly to feel for the baby. Her hands are smaller than Aldercapt’s, and she never touches Ignis for as long as Aldercapt; her nails are painted, too, a different color nearly every time she checks on him. Today her nails are a pale green—for the beginning of spring, perhaps—and Ignis watches them, focusing on the color of her nails, on the brevity of her touch. 

The baby moves when the midwife pushes hard enough, rolling over in Ignis’s belly with what Ignis imagines must be displeasure at being bothered. (Ignis feels displeased, too—to be poked and prodded, to be bent over or pushed down so that Aldercapt can shove his prick into Ignis’s arse or Ignis’s mouth, respectively.) Ignis touches his belly gingerly, a few inches above the spot where his midwife is pushing; he taps his fingers against his belly twice— _tmp-tmp_ —then smooths his thumb over the taut skin. He knows what it’s like to have nowhere to retreat. 

At last the midwife says, with an expectant look, “Only a few days more, then.”

“Ah,” Ignis responds; it’s noncommittal and empty. It’s easy. His midwife doesn’t say a word about his pathetic response, and he wonders if his _Ahs_ and his _Of courses,_ if his _Whatever is bests_ , are the same as his bruises to her.

“Mmhmm,” his midwife hums, and she turns away, giving Ignis the privacy to pull his dress back up. 

It’s two days later that the midwife is proven right.

His contracts begin late at night, after Ignis and Aldercapt have gone to bed. Ignis is still awake, feeling restless and on edge, and the first contraction takes him by surprise. Ignis covers his mouth with one hand, muffling his sound of shock and pain, and twists the bedsheet with his other hand. The contraction passes quickly enough, and Ignis is left lying in bed, blinking dazedly at the dim room, wondering briefly whether he should wake Aldercapt. But—no. No, that— No.

And how freeing it is, to say no, even if it’s only to himself. He spends the long hours of the night lying quietly in bed, inches from his husband, repeating it to himself. He covers his mouth with a handful of the bedsheet— _Let me hear you_ , Aldercapt had told him that first night; _I want to hear how much you want this_ —and he clenches his jaw and his eyes shut, riding out each lengthening contraction. He’ll have this. If nothing else—if he can keep nothing else—he’ll keep this to himself. He’ll be selfish in his pain, greedy in his agony. He won’t let Aldercapt take this, make a gentle, poisonous mockery of this.

When dawn comes, he retreats to his chair by the window. He turns his face against the back of the chair, staring out at the streets far below him, and when the contractions come, he digs his fingers into the armrests until his knuckles ache and his fingertips have gone numb. He waits out the morning, the contractions and Aldercapt’s rising, and then, once Aldercapt has left the room, he stands from his chair and he goes to the door.

There is a guard outside their rooms, as there always is, and Ignis tells him, “I want to speak to the midwife.”

Ignis has waited long enough, made stubborn by his anger and spite, that what’s left of his labor progresses quickly. There’s time for the midwife to arrive and to assess the situation, to strip him down and to have him pace the room, to scold him on his breathing and to bully him into pushing. There’s not time for a messenger to reach Alderapt and for Aldercapt to reach the rooms, for Aldercapt to smile thinly and play at his role of genial husband; there’s not time for Aldercapt to take any part of this. 

There’s not time for Aldercapt to have the first word, so instead, it’s Ignis who takes the ugly, screaming baby the midwife hands up to him. He looks at its red, wet face, and he says with a strange, detached wonder, “Oh. I suppose you’ll be an empress, then. That’s what I’ve made you.”

The baby is still screaming, and the room still smells like sweat and blood and shit, when Aldercapt arrives. Ignis doesn’t look at him; he keeps his head down, staring at the furious creature he’s holding in his arms. He wonders if she’s as angry as him, if all his hours at the window have filled her with the same spite that he has.

He can hear the midwife speaking to Aldercapt, the low murmur of their voices: the midwife congratulating Aldercapt, Aldercapt accepting the congratulations like it’s his due. When Aldercapt crosses the room toward the bed, Ignis feels his arms tighten from a distance, like his body belongs to someone else. The baby is cradled in his arms, and his right hand is tucked between his left elbow and the back of the baby’s head; his hand is hidden, can’t be seen. He taps his fingers against the baby’s soft, fragile skull, and strokes his thumb against the delicateness of her neck. 

Aldercapt doesn’t touch them.

x

Ignis’s reprieve lasts for almost three weeks, most of which feel as though Ignis is balancing on the edge of a knife.

Aldercapt seems utterly uninterested in the baby. He neither looks at her nor touches her, and for the first few weeks after the baby is born, he hardly looks at or touches Ignis. 

For the first few days after the birth, Ignis takes Aldercapt’s abrupt disinterest as a gift. He’s exhausted, his whole body aching from giving birth, and the thought of Aldercapt touching him now fills him with a breathless dread. After the first few days, though, Aldercapt’s continued disinterest begins to take on a threatening quality. 

Ignis finds himself waiting for Aldercapt to grab him, to bend him over or to push him down. He begins flinching at Aldercapt’s distance, growing more anxious as the days pass. He hasn’t gone more than a day or two since the wedding without Aldercapt poking and prodding at him, shoving his prick wherever he wanted, and there is a sick part of Ignis that wants Aldercapt to shove him down onto his knees and to shove his cock into Ignis’s mouth, just so that this waiting will be done with.

The rest of him wonders how he managed to survive the past year.

Then, when the baby is almost three weeks old, Aldercapt asks, “Is she asleep?”

It’s the first time Aldercapt has asked after the baby since her birth, and his unexpected interest causes panic to rush through Ignis like sparks lighting up and down his body. He looks down at his daughter— _their_ daughter—and opens his mouth to say, “Yes.”

His voice cracks on the word, but it doesn’t matter. Aldercapt’s rising from his seat, crossing the room toward Ignis, and he’s already hard, his trousers pulling tight over the shape of his erection. The sight of it makes Ignis sick.

“Put her down,” Aldercapt tells Ignis, and when Ignis hesitates, his arms frozen around the baby, Aldercapt says, “If you’d rather have her taken elsewhere….”

It’s enough to make Ignis obey, like a dog rolling over to show its belly. He stands from his chair and skirts around Aldercapt, taking the baby to lay her in the bassinet; when Aldercapt motions toward the bedroom, Ignis goes, feeling his back prickle with anxious awareness as Aldercapt follows closely behind.

Ignis turns once he’s reached the bed, ready to go to his knees so he can suck Aldercapt off. He’s stopped, though, by Aldercapt reaching out and resting a hand on Ignis’s chest, above the slight swell of his breast. 

“Come, I’d like to see my husband,” Aldercapt says.

Ignis peels the dress from his body, letting it fall around his feet. Aldercapt clucks his tongue, a vague sound that Ignis can’t interpret, whether it’s amusement or distaste or something else entirely. 

(For Ignis, it’s distaste; his body is a strange thing to him, repulsive from all its changes: the flabby, distended belly, the atrophied muscles on his arms and legs, the blood spots left from pinches and bruises. He doesn’t want this body to be his, doesn’t want to look at the changes and know that they happened, that he let them happen, taking them like a beaten dog crawling back to its owner.)

“On the bed, I think,” Aldercapt says, and Ignis feels something deep in his belly grow cold. 

“I can’t,” he tries to say, but his voice breaks, and Aldercapt carries on, speaking over him:

“I’ll have you on the bed.”

“Iedolas.” His voice breaks again. When Aldercapt pushes on his shoulder, he sinks down onto the side of the bed. He can’t seem to breathe, and his hands are beginning to grow numb. “Iedolas, I can’t. I’m still bleeding.”

“Hush,” Aldercapt tells him, pushing at Ignis until Ignis moves further back on the bed, making space for him. “It’s been long enough. You’re an omega, you’re made for this.”

He doesn’t give Ignis time to prepare, or to do anything at all; he grabs Ignis’s knees, pulling them apart so that there’s room for him between them. Ignis tries to squirm away, to at least put a little space between them, but Aldercapt grabs Ignis’s hip, pinning it to the mattress as he shoves himself in, too much and too fast.

Aldercapt doesn’t ease his way in, nor does he wait for Ignis just adjust. There’s nothing, and then there’s too much, all of Aldercapt’s cock buried into Ignis’s torn hole. It feels like Aldercapt is ripping his flesh apart with glass, like Ignis is being shredded. The force of it—of Aldercapt’s thrusts, of the pain that is burning through him—is twisting him apart, and he knows that he’ll die from this. He’s certain he’ll die from this. 

“Please,” he begs, trying to grab at Aldercapt’s arms. His hands are already curled into crooked claws, agony stiffening his knuckles, and he can only paw at Aldercapt’s arms like a beast—a dumb beast. “Stop, please—”

Aldercapt doesn’t stop. Aldercapt wrenches Ignis’s leg to the side, spreading him wider. Ignis feels something tear, and he feels his chest twist up, his lungs tightening and his heart hammering until he thinks it might burst against his rib cage. It would be a mercy to die, it’d be a mercy if Aldercapt grabbed Ignis’s throat and squeezed—stopped Ignis’s breath and Ignis’s heart and Ignis’s voice, the animal-like sounds he can’t hold back. 

He shrieks when Aldercapt knots him, his body jolting. It feels like he’s been run through, and he can’t stop himself from trying to crawl away from the pain. The pull of the knot tears him further, and it feels like he’s catching on fire—or like there are livewires under his skin, burrowing up through his bones, all of them coming from the place where he and Aldercapt are tied together. He can’t—he needs to get away, has to get Aldercapt off him, he _can’t_ —

Aldercapt’s hands fit over Ignis’s neck easily and squeeze just as easily. Ignis writhes, trying to twist his head and neck away, trying to scratch at Aldercapt’s hands. He can’t breathe, and it feels like his brain is screaming, like a train whistle echoing inside his skull. His vision is thinning when Aldercapt lets go of his neck, and even when Ignis blinks—his eyelids feeling slow and heavy—he can’t make his vision clear. The rest of his body feels as slow and heavy as his eyelids, like his body’s half a corpse, like the only part of him left alive is the pain rippling through him.

Aldercapt cleans him afterward. It’s a brisk, cursory type of thing: Aldercapt wiping a damp cloth over Ignis’s arse, Ignis moaning long and low like a dog left to die. (He feels like a dog left to die. Even a well-bred bitch is still just a dog.) Aldercapt looks disgusted, and Ignis thinks that there must be blood on the bed sheets, turning tacky and brown as it dries. If he’s lucky, perhaps Aldercapt will let him lie here in his own blood; if he’s unlucky, then maybe Aldercapt will make him move, make him feel his arse tear and begin to bleed again, just so that he can ruin another set of sheets. 

Ignis closes his eyes and says again, “Please.”

It’s been a year, and he’s still not sure if it’s better or worse to shut his eyes when Aldercapt touches him, whether it’s better or worse to grit his teeth when Aldercapt digs his fingers into Ignis’s flesh; whether it’s better or worse to bite his tongue when Aldercapt murmurs, “I wonder what you will give me next.”

x

 

**From: Ignis S. Aldercapt < I.S.Aldercapt@niflheim.gov >  
** To: N. Lucis Caelum < nluciscaelum@citadel.lu >  
Date: Mon, May 23, 757 at 8:29 AM  
Subject: Re: 

Dear Noct,

My sincerest apologies for my late response. I’m afraid that I have been busier than usual the past few weeks. I’m certain you have already heard the news, but humor me and pretend to be surprised when I tell you that Iedolas and I have been blessed with a daughter. 

She’s three weeks now, give or take a day, so you’ll be happy to hear that she’s much less red and angry looking. She takes up most of my time, but it’s good to keep busy, and she’s still less demanding than other employers I’ve had. 

I miss you, of course, just as I miss all of Lucis. I’m happy here, though. I doubt you’ll believe me, but Gralea is becoming a second home to me. 

More than anything, Noct, I want you to be happy.

Fondly yours,  
Ignis

 

> **On April 26, 757, at 2:14 PM, N. Lucis Caelum < nluciscaelum@citadel.lu > wrote:**

>Dear Ignis,

>I hope you’re getting my emails. Well, I also kind of hope you’re not getting them. 

>You don’t have to write back if you don’t want to, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry about the shit I said in the last couple emails. I’m not mad at YOU, I’m just mad at the whole stupid Niflheim thing.

>I know it’s not your fault. I’m sorry again. I messed up.

>You really don’t have to write, but i’d like to know if you’re okay. You can call, too, if you want.

>I miss you, Specs. You’re my best friend. I hope you’re okay.

>Noct


End file.
